


Fetch

by lemonsharks



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff without Plot, Gifts, Pining, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/pseuds/lemonsharks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dog runs off with a gift Alistair was going to give to the Warden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fetch

**Author's Note:**

> First line meme for #taraljc, prompt from #lavellan-rutherfor, and the Warden in my head is my female Cousland, Serelle.

"You. You need to stop doing that. Just…  _no_.”

The mabari had dropped to his belly, keeping his head low and moving with the direct opposite of stealth with leaves and twigs and gravel crunching beneath him.  

Alistair shifted the scale glove with one hand, held in place between his arm and his knee. In his other, he worked a new steel scale and a pair jeweler’s pliers he’d borrowed from Bodahn.  _I should be able to give better,_ but what did one bestow upon a woman who had little but wanted only for that which couldn’t be given?  _I can’t bring your family back but look, I repaired your gear while you were out?_ She didn’t hold on to pretty baubles and sneezed at flowers.

The Chantry hardly prepared a fellow these conundrums. But work had to be done, it was just Alistair and the dog today, and Noodle lacked the attention needed for detailed—

The hound had reached his foot, and rose now, sniffing his mistress’s glove.  

He met the dog’s gaze with his own, ” _No_.”

The dog whined, and moved a few inches closer, putting his head square in Alistair’s lap. 

"She’ll be back, I—" he stopped, the  _promise_ stuck behind his tongue. “And I don’t have anything for your to chase.” 

The dog took the glove gently between his teeth. 

"Don’t you dare—"

And was off like a shot, all bunched muscle beneath paint and harness and fur, three hours of Alistair’s work flapping outside one side of his mouth. The pliers dropped, forgotten, to the ground as he ran after.


End file.
